


Guilt Makes the Heart Grow Fonder (Abe POV)

by longleggedgit



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-16
Updated: 2010-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-13 05:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longleggedgit/pseuds/longleggedgit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abe and Mihashi accidentally switch shirts after practice one day, and the result is a whole lotta sexual confusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guilt Makes the Heart Grow Fonder (Abe POV)

**Author's Note:**

> The first version: Abe's POV. Based on a prompt at the Oofuri kink meme over on LJ.

"That shirt looks small on you," Abe's mother tells him the minute he gets home. "Are you having a growth spurt again?"

Abe grunts noncommittally before looking down and realizing she's right, it's way too tight. "Huh," he says.

It's not until he's stripping down for his bath that he discovers the explanation: the tag of his shirt has been branded with small red letters spelling out "REN," probably written by Mihashi's mom. Abe snorts and fingers the tag, amused that Mihashi still needs his name written on his clothing even in high school. Then again, Abe could apparently use some help in selecting the right shirt from the club room, too.

He drapes the shirt over the edge of the sink and climbs into the bath, wondering if Mihashi has noticed the mix-up yet. Probably not. Probably he's just going to end up passing out in the clothes he came home in and tomorrow at practice he'll have no idea what Abe is talking about when he asks for his shirt back. Probably when Abe finally does get it, it'll be a wrinkled mess that smells exactly like Mihashi's bed.

The thought makes Abe's stomach knot itself up a little for some reason, and he closes his eyes and frowns against the steam, trying to identify the source of his uneasiness. A sudden noise makes his eyes snap open again, and when he looks for the source he discovers Mihashi's shirt has fallen off the sink and is lying crumpled on the floor. For no reason he can pinpoint, he starts to feel strangely irritable.

Usually Abe lets himself soak after practice for at least half an hour, but he's uncomfortably hot by the end of fifteen minutes, so after he drags himself out of the tub, towels off and pulls on a pair of boxers he grabs Mihashi's shirt, unconcerned by the water he's accidentally splashed on it. He turns off the light and makes to leave, then changes his mind, turning the faucet back on with sudden determination and sticking his head under a harsh stream of cold water. It clears some of the steam from the mirror, but Abe doesn't feel any better.

He shuts the door to his bedroom with more force than intended, earning a barked "BE QUIET" from his father and a "Good night, Takaya," from his mother. Abe stares at the shirt balled up in his hand, toys with the tag again, and finally collapses face-first onto his bed.

For a long time he doesn't move, and it's lying there like that, hand and shirt only a few centimeters from his face, that he takes a deep breath and finally notices the smell. It's not a bad smell, not even remotely; rather than sweat or laundry detergent, Mihashi's shirt reminds him of a combination of a few things: the shampoo he uses in his hair and the air in his house and, most inviting of all, the field on a dry, hot day. Abe's heart starts beating wildly for no reason at all and for what must be at least three full minutes he doesn't dare move, frightened by his own reaction, fingers twisting tightly in the fabric of the shirt.

When at last he shifts forward on the bed, Abe confirms that he's hard. He rolls onto his back, swallowing down a bad taste in his mouth, and tries to fight the mild panic welling up in his chest as he lifts the shirt to his face, inhales deeply, and snakes his hand down to the waistband of his boxers. It feels like years before he musters up the courage to actually slip his hand inside, and by that time he's so inexplicably turned on he hisses through his teeth, the barest contact with his cock making his hips jerk sharply.

 _Oh, fuck_ is Abe's last coherent thought before he's wrapped his hand around himself and started to jerk off, making up for all his previous reluctance with a speed and fervor he's never known before.

At first, he focuses on nothing but the smell, gasping into the shirt like he wouldn't be able to breathe without it. Then an image of Mihashi comes to mind unbidden, the way Abe has seen him so many times without a second thought before: standing there in the club room, shirtless and wiping his face with a towel, his hair matted down with sweat and dirt from the mound. Abe thinks of the way Mihashi's skin feels under his hand when he pats him on the back, hot and clammy from the humidity, and he can't help groaning against the now-hot fabric of Mihashi's shirt.

It's an accident—it's been an accident from the start—but the next jump Abe's imagination takes is Mihashi pressing his face to Abe's neck, the way it would feel to have him breathing hard against his skin, the kinds of sounds Mihashi would make if Abe tugged his pants down and started to do to him what he was doing to himself now. In his head they're on the field, alone in the nighttime and both desperate for it, tearing at each other's clothes and kissing and gasping for air, and the transition is shaky at best but suddenly they're both naked, Mihashi is whimpering on all fours and Abe is fucking him into the ground.

Abe comes within seconds, unable to even envision the scene for much longer than that, and he shudders and continues to smother the embarrassing sounds he makes in Mihashi's scent, the guilt and horror at what he's done washing over him with almost as much force as his orgasm.

"Fuck," Abe chokes out when he's capable of speech again, and when he pulls the shirt away the wet stain from his spit and the heat of his mouth only makes everything worse. He throws the shirt across the room like it's a return pitch and barely even takes a moment to clean himself off before curling into himself on his bed, hiding his head under his pillow and willing his heart rate to return to normal. It's hours before he finally drifts off to sleep.

The next day Abe almost fakes sick, but decides last minute that the only way he could make this situation worse would be to let it affect their game. When he gets to the field he beelines for the dugout to drop off his bag and almost runs into Mihashi, who was crouching out of sight tying his shoes.

"A-Abe-kun," Mihashi stutters, his face coloring. For once, Abe knows exactly how he feels.

"Morning," Abe grunts, but instead of following up with his routine inquiries into Mihashi's health he ducks away and pretends to occupy himself with his gear. Mihashi hovers with typical confusion and awkwardness but eventually he allows himself to be lured away by Tajima's calls to have a game of catch. For the rest of morning practice, Abe can barely look at him. They play so terribly Momokan wants to know if Abe needs to go to the nurse.

"I didn't get much sleep last night," Abe says by way of apology, but he can feel the heat instantly creep up the side of his neck when Mihashi looks his way, because of course, of all the times for Mihashi to finally correctly interpret something Abe says, it has to be _now._

"Don't let it happen again," Momokan says, and Abe bows more deeply than the situation calls for, bent almost in half at the waist.

"It won't," he promises, voice rough.

By the time he straightens up, Mihashi is gone.


End file.
